Three Days
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: Lord Beckett proposes marriage to his young sweetheart. Oneshot.


**Author's Note: **This is a one-shot fic detailing exactly how Beckett proposed to his wife. It takes place four years before "My Friendliest" and unlike the other stories in this series, it is told in the 3rd person POV. I have no beta, so all grammatical and spelling errors that occur in this fic are my fault and my fault alone. Any and all feedback is highly appreciated. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters.

**Three Days**

The music was grand. A harpsichord, accompanied by a trio of violinists and several flutists. They came from France or so the hostess boasted. Lord Beckett's ears picked apart the notes, sharp, concise and well-blended. Normally, he would consider it a pleasant distraction from boredom but as his nerves hummed with agitation, he found could not listen.

Light from the estate snaked across the grounds and he basked in it, winding his way along a hedge-lined path. The laughter and chatter of the giddy guests grated upon him. Beckett curled his fingers and tapped his walking stick on the gravel strewn ground. Not many noticed when he slipped away from the ranks of the esteemed nobility gracing the dance. His presence, while marked, was never missed. And for once in his life, Beckett was glad for it.

He wanted to be invisible, a weightless shadow set to glide through the garden. Only she would know where to find him. She always did.

Beckett found his way into the inner sanctum of the garden. To his relief, no guests traipsed through the small labyrinth constructed from thin shrubs. Unlike the imposing mazes he had seen on grander estates, this one appeared trivial. Trivial but discreet, he thought. Her uncle would never think to look for them there.

Ever since the incident at her family's stables, her uncle had forbidden any contact between them. But his sweetheart was resilient, shockingly so. She contrived to attend the same dance as he did and with the utmost secrecy arranged a meeting with the aid of a paid-off maid.

Determined. Yes, that was the word for her. And fierce.

Beckett settled himself by a hedge to the right and waited. He was hidden from view, but not from her. Never from her.

Evening soon deepened into night. Beckett arranged the folds of his burgundy frock coat. The braiding ran like a gold river along his wrist and crept up his chest. He wondered now if it did not look foppish.

Noise from the surrounding grounds caused his pulse to jump. This wasn't romance, Beckett decided. This was fear, wretched, desperate, wondering if he would ever see her face again. Nothing about this situation could be deemed enjoyable. Romeo and Juliet were most certainly mad.

A figure crossed the threshold into the center of the labyrinth. Beckett swallowed and held his breath. His fingers tightened about his walking stick.

"Cutler?" She spoke his name and at once he remembered why he endured such misery.

"Anne."

A faint rustling followed, like leaves stricken by an autumn wind. In an instant Anne was by his side. Her hand grasped his forearm, tight.

"Dear God Cutler, dear God."

She wore a green dress, plain but elegant, her light hair done up with a single silver pin. Her round face still maintained the plumpness of childhood.

"No one saw you?" he asked. An anxious chill seemed to settle over the garden.

Anne shook her head. The silver pin winked in the moonlight. "Mother is still inside. Harriet promised to keep her occupied, if only for a little while. I kept looking over my shoulder…I saw no one."

Beckett rested his hand over hers. "Your fingers are like ice, darling."

"I know…I...I." She looked around, distracted. And then tears slid down her cheeks. "Cutler please, you have to take me away."

Beckett felt his breath freeze in his throat. He had never seen her cry before, never. The sudden openness of emotion caught him off guard and frightened him. What should he do? Comfort her? Attempt to offer some placid reassurance?

What stunned him more than her upset was the sudden frustration that welled within him, sharpened with anger. He wanted to harm the person who had wronged her, not for his benefit but for hers. An utterly new sensation, in itself.

He swallowed once more, calmed his thoughts and then turned to her. "What-

But her voice rose above his. "Its uncle, of course. He flew into such a rage after he found us by the stables. I hate him! He threatens me with every evil imaginable. He even suggested sending me away to live with some horrid old matron only to keep us apart. And mother says nothing, she never does. He is as much her lord as her brother. I have no ally now that Auntie is gone. Even Harriet remains mute. Please, Cutler."

Sobs jolted her body. She rested her head on the slope between his neck and shoulder. "I do not know what would become of me if we were ever sundered. I think I should die, yes. I should die wretched and alone."

Anne continued to ramble on and like he had with the music, Beckett tried to dissect her frantic words. His mother often fell victim to hysterics and he remembered her panicked shrieks as the servants ran to fetch smelling salts. But Anne did not resemble such a weak woman, trapped by heightened emotions and reckless senses.

No, she was the sensible one. Calm, charming and even a bit mischievous. Certainly not hysterical or helpless.

But now she continued to sob, her arms latched about his neck. Beckett hesitated for a moment longer and then placed his arms about her waist. With a deft effort he pulled her closer until she almost sat upon his lap. Propriety was cast away, abandoned and forgotten.

"Listen to me, my fairest. Listen for only a moment." He spoke in measured whispers. "Do you recall my horse Marcus?"

She did not respond.

"You must know him, you have seen him often enough. A gallant fellow. He stands at almost sixteen hands. His coat is dark, bay, and he carries himself so proudly. I often hunt with him. Certainly, you remember."

"Yes," Anne said at length but uttered nothing more.

"Well, Marcus is a terribly fast creature. In fact, I've had him at the races once or twice. He did well for himself. Came in third against two stallions from Ireland. He is also strong, very strong. I am sure he could carry two riders at a great speed and not be caught. Even your uncle's horses are not that swift. "

He felt her hand tighten around the collar of his jacket. She lifted her eyes to him and that keen understanding that he so loved flooded their depths. "Tonight?"

"No. I need more time."

"Tomorrow then?"

"No." He nibbled his lower lip. "Three days."

She sniffed once, shut her eyes and then snapped them open. "Three days."

"Here." He fished inside his pocket. His fingers swam through the dark silk until the touch of cold metal arrested them. Beckett extracted a plain gold posey ring. "For you, my fairest."

Anne looked at it and ran her thumb over the inscription, some old romantic proverb. "Keep it."

Beckett's eyebrows darted upwards. "But Anne-

"If uncle or mother were to come across it, all would be lost. Keep it, just for a short time."

"Very well." He tucked it back into his pocket and ignored the vague pang of grief that assaulted him as Anne stood.

She straightened her skirts and picked off a stray piece of grass. Her reasonable manner had returned. "I shall keep a watchful eye and a still tongue in my head."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

Anne moved back toward the threshold, her face schooled with strict dignity and complacency. Yet there was something in the faint moonlight that made her appear so young, so vulnerable. Beckett sank his fingers into the ground

She paused and half-turned and for one brief moment, uncertainty poisoned her eyes. "You shall come for me, won't you Cutler?" she asked

"Of course." The words threatened to choke him, his chest compressed under the weight of them. "Three days."

She smiled only once for him and then left labyrinth.


End file.
